


Paint it, black

by anotherbird



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Pain, Set after "Blessed are the peacemakers" in Chapter 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 15:43:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19976527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anotherbird/pseuds/anotherbird
Summary: Arthur hated being bound to camp. Hated the restlessness that crept into his bones and the injury and pain that rendered him useless.He needed a way out.





	Paint it, black

**Author's Note:**

> A tiny content warning: there's a mentioning of past child abuse (Arthur's father pushing his head under water). It's just one line, but I just wanted to give a tiny heads up about this.

Pain came in different colors, Arthur knew. 

It was a tired blue-ish grey after too much time spent riding. Aching thighs and sore muscles, eyes and head throbbing from lack of sleep. 

A reddish brown for a broken nose or a pulled tooth or knuckles beaten bloody after a fight.

There was pink stinging heart ache, that made your heart flutter and your hands shake and turned your words into barely audible mumbling, eyes hidden under the brim of your hat. 

The green rotting pain of a longer sickness, the one Hosea knew far too much about.

The black excruciating pain of loss and dread and fear, clawing at your insides and infesting them. Nesting there and spreading, pulling you down. The one you try to paint over, but it never worked, sticking at your heels like tar. It couldn’t be washed off. It just became a part of your being. It burnt ugly scars into your skin, haunted and suffocated and you could scrub and scrub, but it never came off. 

The dark crimson of a bleeding, aching heart longing for something and someone that was too far out of reach, but dangling in front of your nose like a carrot.

The light grey of the dry irritating coughs that visited him from time to time.

But then there was this new pain. Feverish and blinding and mixed with panic and the inescapable knowledge that it could be the last thing you’d ever see, drenched in dreams and hallucinations. 

It was white. 

Completely drained of any color and still all colors at the same time. It was a blinding light. It couldn't be seen or touched. It was everything and everywhere. It was his whole being. It was all Arthur saw when he slipped out of consciousness. 

A dying light, a sore throat, dry lips, thirst and heat. 

At some point they were voices. They were talking to him. Begging and pleading and whispering. They promised revenge or begged for forgiveness. They were calm or spiteful or ridden with fear. Some read to him, some threatened him. Loud and demanding, low and hesitant. They kept him company, even those that he just wanted to disappear. Someone whispering sweet promising nonsense to him. Telling him to finally die. Urging him to fight. And everyone of them called him by some different name. He didn't even know if they were real.

When he finally he woke, his union suit was drenched in sweat and old dried blood, pus and piss, the same one he had worn, when he had come here, but pulled down to make room for skilled hands and bandages. His shoulder felt unmovable. Raw and hot and swollen. White pain radiated into his arm down to his fingers and even into his neck and chest. Broken nose clotted with dried up blood made it hard to breath. Broken ribs ached, when he tried to move, white pain flared up again and pulled at the rims of his consciousness, kicking him back into oblivion, while shadows hurried over to him.

Whenever he woke up, someone was with him. Usually Susan or Tilly, Hosea or Swanson, in the beginning at least. Someone handing him water or lukewarm stew, until the white pain lured him back into something that didn't deserve the word sleep, but didn't feel like death either. 

The fever lasted four days was what they told him later.

Afterwards. 

When he was able sit awake for more than a few minutes, drifting in and out of sleep. Made him feel like a kid again, these few waking minutes. With Hosea being right at his side, one hand on his forehead, telling him _It’s okay, son. You’ll be fine._

Like when he dad come down with pneumonia, when he had been just fifteen. 

Dutch would come. Later. When Arthur could sit upright without looking like a corpse. Dutch couldn’t handle sickness. Never could. Mortality wasn’t something he really liked to face.

But after more than a week, he could keep his eyes open. Could listen to Swanson explaining to him that he would indeed live. 

Now they just needed to wait. 

Wait for the pain to numb down. For nerves and bones and muscles to heal. 

When Arthur even tried to move his arm, white pain made him throw up, broken ribs aching in protest. 

Like Swanson had told him: with being awake came waiting. Resting. 

He was bound to camp now. 

Bound to listen to Dutch and Molly bickering, voices low but venomous. 

And to Hosea and Dutch arguing.

 _You nearly got him killed_.

_He’s going to be okay. Swanson said..._

_He told you it was a trap, Dutch. He told you, but you didn’t listen!_

When Dutch came to see him for the first time the white pain had dulled down mostly. Had turned into a bright red. Still raw, but not as blinding. Tamed with drugs and herbs and booze. His arm was still largely useless, dead painful weight in a sling over his chest. Dutch came with promises and apologies. Guilt-ridden and sleepless and Arthur couldn’t tell if he was talking to him or to himself.

Arthur was in camp three weeks, when he felt ready to kill. 

There were only so many rounds of Domino’s you could play and books to read. Only so many times he could listen to Molly’s sorrows and John's and Abigail’s fights and Pearson’s stories. Once he was strong enough to constantly listen, but not deemed ready to leave camp or do chores that required heavy lifting, there was no escape.

He, who usually came and left as he pleased, who was used to pull the weight, was trapped. Trapped in a restless place with no real purpose. 

It was time to find the weak links in his nursemaids. 

Almost everyone of his gangmates kept him company, so he never was really left alone, always one pair of eyes on him, as if he was a newborn that demanded constant surveillance. So he had to figure out, who he could push enough to bend. 

He got Mary-Beth with some trading. She got him books and sweets, anything he needed out of town. In exchange he would read extracts of her stories, share some gossip he picked up in camp and allowed her a tiny peek onto some of his drawings, even promised an illustration to her. 

John was much easier. Felt too much like he owed him to really refuse any of Arthur's requests. So he got his first bath in flat iron lake, to finally scrub all this filth off of him, even though he nearly passed out twice during it. He even got John to shave him. Sure, he was bitching and moaning the whole time, but in the end, he did what he was told.

But Sean. 

Sean was his ticket out of here. The kid was as eager to please Arthur as he was to escape his usual duties. He was almost too easy to play. Even though the constant chatter made Arthur’s head ache, it was worth it, when the camp seemed almost empty around noon and Sean was hanging around his place like flies to shit. Arthur’s eyes darted through the camp. Uncle seemed asleep under the big tree in the middle of camp, either oblivious or ignorant of his surroundings. On his bedroll Bill was snoring loudly, as Cain chewed on his boot while he was wearing it.

Arthur lit a cigarette - Mary-Beth had stolen a package for him - and kicked Sean, who sat in front of Arthur’s bunk bed on the floor. Lazy bastard. He startled awake immediately. 

“Hey, boy.” He kicked him again, with more force than strictly necessary. 

“What?” The redhead blinked a little disoriented. 

“Where’s everyone?”

“Huh?”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “I said: where is everyone?”

“Dunno. Out, I guess.” Sean shrugged and Arthur felt the sudden urge to strangle the kid.

“Half of camp is empty and you can’t even tell me where they went? You jokin’?”

Sean shrugged again, even had the decency to look a little guilty, but made no attempts to move or reveal any further information.

“Get the O’Driscoll boy over here.” Arthur heaved himself off the bed with a grunt, cigarette between his lips and gestured towards the upper campfire, where Kieran was polishing what appeared to be Arthur’s saddle.

“Why?”

“Stop asking stupid questions and move, boy, or I make you.”

When Sean arrived a little later dragging Kieran behind him, Arthur had managed to pull his boots on and was fumbling with his gun belt. 

“Mr.. Arthur?” Kieran looked like he had seen a ghost - and maybe he had. He was such a weak link, he didn’t deserve the word link at all, but he was taking good care of Arthur’s horse, so he was willing to let that slip. The moody black shire Arthur had kept wasn’t easy to handle and rarely willing to let people touch him. Kieran was an exception. 

“Where is everyone?” Arthur asked without introduction, mostly concentrating on putting his belt on with just one useable arm, constantly cursing under his breath. 

“Why...why would you ask me?”

“You’re afraid of everyone, so you know where everyone is. Now answer me.” Arthur finally managed to close the belt and holstered one of his guns. The offhand holster wasn't of much use as long as his left arm was in a sling or barely even movable. 

He could see the screws in Kieran’s head work.

“Miss Grimshaw and the girls, they are in town… I think. They took the waggon. Abigail and Miss O’Shea, too.”

“Dutch?” Not looking at Sean or Kieran, Arthur checked the insides of his satchel, before putting it on.

“He’s meeting with Herr Strauss, Mister Trelawny and a debtor. Mister Matthews is out fishing with Lenny and Jack.”

“Guard duty?”

“Marston. Bill.” Duffy’s eyes flickered over to where Bill was asleep on his bedroll “And Javier. I don’t know where the Reverend is. Mister Pearson is asleep. Mrs Adler and Mister Smith are out hunting. Mister Bell hasn't been seen for a few days.”

Arthur nodded.

“Good.” He grabbed Kieran’s shoulder and offered a mildly threatening smile. "Now go and saddle up Stranger.”

"But.."

"I'm riding out. I can't do it on my own, so you're gonna help me."

All color fled from Sean's face. "You can't do this to me, English. Old man's gonna kill me, when he finds out, I let you go."

Arthur already headed for the place where his black shire was grazing. 

"Well, if you don't let me go, I'm gonna kill you right now." 

#

The horseback wasn't the best idea, Arthur had to admit. Getting on the giant stallion had already been almost too much for him and without Sean or Kieran he wouldn't have reached his saddle at all. Leaving camp without being noticed by Javier had been the easiest part, with using Sean to distract him. 

Now that he was following the beach of the lake, only his own stubbornness kept him from turning around, tail between his legs. Every step, even the slow ones made his ribs and shoulder hurt. Five minutes and he was drenched in sweat and breathing heavily, the gunshot wound in his shoulder throbbing in the unsteady rhythm of his heart, spreading right into his fingertips. 

When he reached the spot, where he had caught the big bluegill, he made Stranger stop and almost fell from the saddle. He lowered himself down into the damp sand and leaned into a boulder behind him, breathing heavily. He felt dizzy, tired. Far too exhausted for just short ride out, but for the first time it was quiet around him. 

No constant chatter. No arguing. Nothing. 

Arthur rested his head against the rock and took a deep breath, ignored the almost numbing pain as a result of this. He closed his eyes and just listened.

To the waves behind him. 

The chirping of birds in the nearby trees. 

And a familiar human voice that came steadily closer. Not much later Arthur could spot a well known hat and a brown horse at the treeline above him. 

"It seems we are hopelessly lost, Dorothy, and you weren't much help." 

“You know Mister Mason, you’re loud as a stampede of buffaloes.”Arthur called and suppressed a laugh, when the man looked around in total confusion for a moment, before be spotted Arthur below him. Immediately a broad smile appeared on his face. 

“Arthur Morgan!” The photographer dropped not very elegantly from his filly and headed towards him. “Is that you?” With a little stumble he slid down the small sandcliff. 

"Guess it's me. Least I think it is." 

Mason hesitated for a moment, when he took in Arthur's appearance, but ultimately just settled down next to him in the sand. 

“Well, you know, Arthur, I’m not a believer in such things as fate, but our meetings are really testing my faith. As it appears, I am - and now you may laugh at me - totally lost.”

Arthur snorted in amusement.

"I got that from what you said to your horse." 

“It’s true, though. She really wasn’t much help.”

Unimpressed by her owner's accusations, Dorothy went to look for some grass.

“So, tell me Mister Mason, what are you doing in this inbred hellhole anyway.”

“Panthers.”

“What?”

“Panthers. Beautiful creatures, but very hard to find. They can blend in with their surroundings in an almost perfect manner, but are hunted for their pelts. I was told they are habitants in the woods around the Braithwaite estate.” And there it was. The excitement in his voice, that took control over his whole body. Eyes bright and wide, cheeks flushed, hands wildy gesturing. 

For a moment Arthur was too distracted to really grab his words. 

“So you’re trying to get eaten by a cat that you won’t see coming.” Arthur just stared at him in blatant disbelief, when the coin finally dropped.

“Well, you know, Mister Morgan, it’s not that much different than being with humans. You never know, when they attack you either. Not everyone is a gentleman like you are.”

Arthur snorted und shook his head. 

“You really don’t know me very well, Mister Mason.”

“I know that without you, my equipment would be gone, I’d been eaten by wolves and an alligator and I had fallen to my death. And you just did that without expecting anything in return.” Almost gently Albert bumped his shoulder against his. “I wouldn’t have gotten my most beautiful shots without you, Arthur. I would say that I know quite enough.”

Arthur fell silent and hid his face under the brim of his hat for a while and chewed on his bottom lip. 

Arthur liked jobs like these, that didn't really were jobs at all. People he just stumbled over and that saw more in him than hired muscle.

It was a relief, being around someone this.. innocent. Who apologized to a brute like him, wasn't intimidated by his appearance, but just thankful for a helping hand. For those rare moments a weight was lifted from Arthur's shoulders. The weight of being Dutch's work horse. The loyal dog on a leash. He wasn't the man, who strangled another with skilled hands and sheer force, who had to wash human blood out of his clothes that wasn’t his own. Mason watched him with wonder and amusement, he was grateful and charmed and not afraid even though Arthur felt as untamed and raw as the wildlife Albert was trying to capture in his photographs.

Usually those moments with strangers, they just went by. A memory to write down, a picture to sketch and think fond off. To remind himself that he was allowed tiny moments without the gang. Snippets of life that were his alone. Actions he did, because he wanted to, not because he was told to do them. 

But Albert was...

Albert was something else entirely.

He had gotten under his skin somehow..

He called him a gentleman. Without irony. No sarcasm was dropping from his words, but his eyes beamed and Arthur had to lower his gaze and hide his face to not appear like the smitten fool that he was. 

It was surreal. Albert hadn’t asked him for his help. Not once. And Arthur gained nothing out of it. 

Nothing but smiles and Mason’s excitement and maybe a thankful squeeze of his arm or a pat on the back and to his own surprise the photo of the wolves, he kept safe in his journal.

Tiny moments.

They were his. Not tainted by greed or death or scheming. That's why he hadn't really told anyone.

Not even Dutch. 

Especially not Dutch. 

When he met Albert Mason he was light-hearted for days, found smiling to himself. He ignored the question, if he had gotten himself a sweetheart. 

And how did you even tell someone that you fought off wolves and lured gators just for a random wildlife photographer you met in the woods? For Nothing but a smile and an aching heart as payment?

“If I may speak freely.” Mason’s voice interrupted his thoughts and he turned his head to find inquisitive eyes on himself. Curious and worried. “You don't look so good, Mister Morgan. In fact, you appear rather miserable.”

Arthur chuckled, but regretted it, when his still not fully recovered ribs hurt in the process.

“You're hurting my feelings, Mister Mason.”

“I was obviously just talking about your physical state.” Albert seemed mildly offended at the accusation. “You are as handsome as ever.”

Mason ignored Arthur's obvious discomfort. 

Arthur felt a lot things, tired and hurting, unwashed and uncivilized. The bruises from his broken nose fading, but still visible. Handsome surely wasn't a word that came to mind.

“You just say it like you mean it.”He mumbled.

“Why wouldn't I mean it?” Almost baffling honesty. 

“You sure have a way with them words, Mister Mason.” 

Arthur shook his head and searched his satchel for the package of cigarettes to give himself something to do. Unfortunately he had left them in camp. 

He sighed and leaned his head against the boulder, shoulder to shoulder with Mason next to him. He could feel his warmth radiating through the fabric of his clothes. Or maybe he just wanted to feel it. 

Looking at Mason was the good kind of pain. It ached in his throat and heart and stomach. It lowered his guards and pulled the corners of his mouth upwards even if he didn't mean them to. Itchy and irritating like the sting of a bee. It had the color of honey. Expensive and sweet and not easy to come by, but it created a longing as soon as you had tasted it. Like hot chocolate that burnt your tongue. 

“What happened to you if I may ask?” Again it was Albert, who interrupted the silence. His hands in his lap were fitchety and Arthur had to fight the urge to reach for them, even if only to stop them from moving.

Maybe to have an excuse to just hold them for a moment. 

“Had a run-in with some nasty pack of wolves.”

“Wolves with guns?”

Arthur watched the other man closely, the raised eyebrows, unveiled worry. 

“Albert…”

Before he could really start, Albert’s hand on his arm made him stop. Warm fingers curled around him just above his wrist, gentle and soft, barely calloused. 

“Mister Morgan. Arthur. I know I may come off as a little… naive, in the face of nature’s variety of dangers and my tendency to get myself into situations that require your help, borders on stupidity, but I am able to read the newspapers.”

Suddenly Arthur felt cold. Breathless. Like the time his pa had held his head under water in a rain barrel. A cold hard lump in his throat. 

“I don’t think I can follow.” He forced himself to say. 

“Excuse me, if I’m too blunt, but I can assure you that your wanted posters aren’t flattering at all. So when an outlaw, who travels with the notorious Dutch van der Linde looks like that, it’s hard to believe in wolves being the cause.”

Arthur tried to calm his nerves, eyes fixed on Stranger, who had joined Mason’s filly above them. 

“Since when..?” Arthur's mouth felt dry.

“After we first met and you got me my bag back from this thieving coyote, I headed back to Strawberry. I read about what happened in Blackwater in the papers, saw your picture and your name, that you told me free handedly.”

Arthur pressed his eyes shut. He truly was an idiot.

“So all the times we met, you knew.”

“I did.”

Arthur forced himself to look at him again, studied the honest open face.

“You could’ve set the law on me.”

“And more decent and less selfish men than me, certainly would have. But I am, after all, a fool, Sir. Especially around you. And maybe I read one or two dime novels too many, that left me as a hopeless romantic in the face of handsome selfless gunslingers.”

Arthur tilted his head to have a better look at Albert, who now was the one with his eyes fixed on the trees above them, a slight blush creeping over his cheeks and ears - or maybe it was the heat and Arthur just saw things he wished to be there. After a while he cleared his throat and scratched his beard. 

“I was ambushed by another gang. Shot me.” He gestured to the shoulder, that wasn’t touching Albert. “They tried to use me as bait for the others. Got their special guest treatment for a couple of days.”

Albert stared at him in shock, so open that Arthur had to avoid those eyes watching him. He expected questions for details, about the gang's feud, the ambush, the injury. But..

“How are you?"

Arthur looked at him, frowned.

“I’ll live.” He answered. That's what he told everyone. That he'd live. That was what the Reverend had told him. Maybe he would lose some mobility of his arm. Maybe the pain would stay. Maybe. 

But he would live to find out after all 

“That’s not what I was asking.” 

Arthur opened his mouth, closed it again, shrugged with his good shoulder and ignored the pain in his other as much as he could. 

“I’m tired.” He mumbled after a while, eyes back on the trees. It was barely more than a coarse whisper. 

“You can rest your eyes for a while, if you want. I won’t disappear. And I’ll wake you, if I see a panther."

"If you see the panther, you're almost dead already."

Albert chuckled and shoved him with his shoulder again. 

“I successfully avoided dying for quite some time now. I can avoid it for a few more minutes so you can rest.”

Arthur weight the thought in his head for a while, but finally sighed, leaned back against the boulder and closed his eyes. 

“Just for a few minutes.” He mumbled. 

  


#

Arthur hadn't noticed that he fell asleep, but he woke up slumped against the other man, head comfortably bedded on his shoulder. Face hidden under his hat. He could smell his sweat and soap, he could smell his horse and grass and a hint of lemon. He smelled safe. Not like blood and fire and gunpowder and death. It took him another second to realize Albert had rested his head against his. Just slightly. A small comfortable lean. He was mumbling some unknown melody that seemed to vibrate through his body. Arthur felt it more than he heard it. 

He wondered what he smelled like. Blood and sweat. Gunpowder and bad liquor and tobacco. The opposite of safe. 

Death and destruction.

He would’ve stayed in this position a little longer, if his ribs hadn’t started to protest against his slouched posture. With a little groan he positioned himself upright again and straightened his hat, blinking against the sudden light. 

He rubbed his eyes. 

“Sorry.” He looked at Mason, who watched him closely, a little flushed. “I didn’t mean to.. you know.”

Albert smiled, strained, lopsided, but waved it away. 

“I gladly fulfill my role as a comfortable pillow, if it helps.”

“It did...It..” Arthur cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

A weird silence fell around them for a bit. not really cold or uncomfortable. Just. 

Tensed, maybe. 

It took Arthur a while to realize that the position of the sun had changed quite a bit. 

“How long did I sleep?” 

“An hour, I think.”

“Shit.”

Arthur tried to get to his feet far too quickly, only to stumble back immediately, face twisted in pain. He knew if anyone noticed his absence they would eventually come looking for him and he had told Kieran, where we was heading. And despite the big talk he didn’t really want Sean or Kieran to get into trouble. It was Mason who finally helped him to his feet, his good arm around his shoulders, until he could stand upright. 

“I need to get back. Don’t want anyone come searching for me.” Arthur explained as he whistled for Stranger, who had ventured a little into the shadowy woods. The stallion came, grudgingly so, but he came. Arthur patted his muscled neck. 

“I can take you back to your camp. Make sure you get there safely.” Albert offered.

“Nah, it's fine. Don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

For a while they just awkwardly stood next to Stranger, unwilling to part, until something came to Arthur’s mind.

A Farewell gift maybe.

“Almost forgot. I got something for you. You know, for the photograph you gave me.”

“I would say that saving my life multiple times was enough to make up for that.” A warm smile spread over Albert’s face.

Arthur smiled and pulled his journal out of his satchel. At the end of it, he found the site he had ripped out, when he had finished the drawing. He had intended to send Albert a letter, but now was as good a time as any. 

It was definitely one of his better ones. A stag, standing tall and proud. He gave Albert the folded piece of paper and turned towards Stranger, who started to grow impatient. 

“It’s nothing special. Just. Thought you may like it and all.”

There was shuffling of paper. A few antagonizing seconds of waiting.

“You drew that?” Albert’s voice was a little incredulous. Maybe a little in awe even. 

“I guess,” Arthur fumbled with Stranger’s saddle. 

“Arthur.”

Arthur turned around, eyes still everywhere but on Mason. 

“Let me be bold and do something stupid and possibly dangerous.” 

Arthur had barely any time to react, not even a chance to be surprised, when Albert closed the gap between them. 

It wasn’t a kiss really, at first at least. Just warm lips pressed hurriedly against the corner of his mouth. 

Albert was a brave man in his own way. It took a special kind of bravery to venture the wilds all on your own just for some photographs.

It took even more courage to kiss a notorious outlaw. 

Before he had any chance to flee, to even take a step back, Arthur leaned against him, pressed his lips against his, maybe a little too eager, a little too clumsy. The only thing keeping him vom stumbeling against Albert was his hand holding the horn of Stranger’s saddle. 

Albert's lips tasted like strawberries. It's what Arthur would remember in the months to come, whenever he felt especially horrible. When he thought about giving up. Just let go. When everything in his life seemed to be painted in black.

How he tasted like strawberries and smelled like the nature he ventured.

“You, Mister Mason, are full of surprises.” Arthur mumbled, after what felt like an eternity and earned a small chuckle in return. 

“And here I thought, I was being obvious.”

**Author's Note:**

> This bad boy can fit so many tropes in it. I know there’s nothing particularly new about this story, but I really enjoyed writing it and I hope you had some fun reading!  
> I obviously took some artistic liberties considering Arthur’s recovery. Broken ribs usually take around 4 to 6 weeks to heal. A gunshot wound like this on the other hand would probably have far more severe and absolutely long lasting consequences than we see in-game. 
> 
> Anyway, that was my first RDR2 fic. Find me on Tumblr [the-other-bird](http://the-other-bird.tumblr.com) or Twitter [@ItsAnotherBird](https://twitter.com/ItsAnotherBird)


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